


Whispering Walls

by Iris_Quincy_Rosewood



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, F/M, Gen, Ghosts, Mystery, Not Romance Centred, References to Illness, Scotland, Stark family lives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:15:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23929789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iris_Quincy_Rosewood/pseuds/Iris_Quincy_Rosewood
Summary: The Starks summer at their ancestral home in Northern Scotland with the hope that the fresh Highland air will help their eldest daughter, whose deteriorating health is becoming more concerning by the day. However, in the time they've been away, unspeakable things have happened within their walls, and there are whispers that the old stones of Winterfell now hold more than just history.Inspired by a prompt from a friend <3
Relationships: Arya Stark & Sansa Stark, Catelyn Stark/Ned Stark, Jon Snow/Sansa Stark, Robb Stark & Sansa Stark
Comments: 11
Kudos: 56





	Whispering Walls

**Author's Note:**

> It's 4 in the morning and I wrote this instead of sleeping xD

"Sansa, dear, why don't you take a turn in the garden? You're looking a bit pale this morning." Her mother regarded her with a strained smile over the needlework in her lap, and Sansa suppressed a sigh. 

"What garden?" She muttered, earning a raised brow from Catelyn. "It'll be months before it looks anything like the one at home. Besides, what good would it do?"

"Your health would benefit from the sun, and it's so rare here to see it-"

"Please," she interrupted, reaching a hand up to the now pained expression on her mother's face and placing it softly on her cheek, "You promised not to mention my health. Not anymore." They both grew quiet, the air between them turning solemn.

Her mother had had such a youthful face, but over these few short months that Sansa's health had rapidly decreased her mother had aged considerably, as had her father. Both were still beautiful to her, though. "You don't know that. And your father and I made this choice because we thought the fresh air would benefit you, Dr. Pycelle agreed." 

Sansa cringed at the thought of the old physician, with his stinking breath and wandering leathery hands. She shook off the memories of his lingering looks with a shudder, and spoke without thinking. "Why did we leave Arya and the boys behind, then?" 

Her mother went silent and pale, and Sansa felt her throat constrict. She attempted to clear it, as her mother seemed to have taken on a face like the marble structures sculpted after her great grandparents in the attic. She hadn't expected such an answer, even if there wasn't a word said in response, and she truly regretted speaking with a loose tongue.

"As I suspected," she said, attempting nonchalance and failing as her voice cracked. She rose from her chair and turned to leave the room, drawing into herself. "I think I will venture to the village, Lady needs a walk anyway."

Her mother sprang from her chair, "That's _much_ too far, I'll call for the carriage-"

"If I can _see_ my destination, mother, I can walk there," she snapped, again, regretting it instantly. She stopped in the doorway, taking a short breath. She'd gotten up too fast, and her head felt light. Turning, and angry at her weakness, she looked to her mother's shoes, not trusting herself to handle seeing the pain most definitely in her mother's eyes again, _because of her._ "I'm sorry, mama," she said softly, hoping it might soothe the aches between them. "I'll turn back if I feel the least bit dizzy-" 

"Ask someone from the village to bring you home if you tire." Her mother's tone became resigned, and she left the room without another word. 

"I promise," she answered to the empty space, pain forming in her abdomen as the very walls seemed to whisper her words back to her. _I promise._

A shiver ran down her spine, and she glided out of the room. 

**** 

_"But Black is the colour of my true love's hair._   
_His face is like some rosy fair,_   
_The prettiest face and the neatest hands,_   
_I love the ground whereon he stands..."_

She strolled down the lane, singing softly and looking behind her at the receding castle. Lady was a ways behind her, sniffing happily at something in the grass as the sun barely managed to shine through the clouds overhead. The breeze was light, and the sight of the tide's ebb and flow in the distance was a welcome sight. Up ahead there was a lichyard, where she knew there to be some of the oldest Stark ancestors buried beneath the soil. 

_"The winter's passed and the leaves are green,_   
_The time is passed that we have seen,_   
_But still I hope the time will come_   
_When you and I shall be as one._

_I go to the Clyde for to mourn and weep,_   
_But satisfied I never could sleep._   
_I'll write to you a few short lines,_   
_I'll suffer death ten thousand times._

_So fare you well, my own true love_   
_The time has passed, but I wish you-"_

"Now what would a lovely voice such as your's be singing a mournful tune like that for?" 

She startled so wretchedly that she nearly fell headlong into a murky puddle, and two arms darted out to grab her. Luckily, she managed to regain her footing without assistance.

"You _startled_ me, don't you know how rude-" She looked up in annoyance into two shock grey eyes and a mess of black curls, and immediately lost her train of thought.

"My most sincere apologies, miss. The query was genuine, I assure you, and not meant to startle," he looked as if he were holding back laughter, and yet she couldn't find the self-preserving offence that most often accompanied discomposure. 

"Query?" She repeated, and then flushed at her stupidity, and the thought that he found her voice lovely. "I was just... singing, sir. I don't believe I actually chose the song specifically, it was merely caught in my head." 

"On a bright day such as this? Surely that wouldn't do. Sunshine and death so rarely go well together." 

She tried not to let her shock at his brazen words show, and then bristled when she fully comprehended what he'd said.

"Bright? Sunshine?" She repeated with an incredulous laugh, "I must say, my mother and you are of a like opinion, but should your expectations of a sunny day ever meet my own standards worthy of its title, I believe the sun would be scorching the very ground we stand on."

He laughed, loudly and boyishly, and the realisation dawned on her that he could not be much older than she. She rather liked the sound of it, even if her intent was not to be laughed at. 

"My lady, I'm inclined to agree with you. You're from England, then?" 

"And you're from here."

"Aye," he replied easily, traces of laughter still lingering in his voice, "I suppose you could say I am." 

They stood there for a few moments, and as the silence began to fall prey to awkwardness, she curtsied and bid him a soft 'good day.'

"Wait! I've not learned your name?"

She fought a smile, and turned back towards him.

"Sansa," at this, his eyes seemed to dim slightly, and his mouth turned down into a saddened frown. She covered her disappointment with a rushed- "And yours?"

There was a beat where she thought he might not answer. Just when she found it might be unbearable to continue, he gave her a small smile and a slight bow. 

"Jon. Might I walk you to town if you're headed that way, Miss Sansa?" He asked. 

She did not hide her relieved smile this time, "Yes, you may." His answering smile had her ducking her head, lest she make a fool of herself.

He did not offer his arm, which she did not mind, as they were close enough as it was. They walked along together without decorum as the town steadily grew closer, and she found she preferred his easy company to the loquacious crowds of London.

"...I've not seen you here-about before," he said, turning towards her with a bright smile, and she could almost forget the way his eyes had changed so, only moments ago. 

"My parents and I are summering at Winterfell," she responded, raising a brow at the distant look in his eyes, "They come almost every year, but it's been years since I've been back." She thought he might be surprised by the mention of her ancestral home, but he merely nodded politely. 

"Ah yes, Winterfell. You know..." he pitched his voice to a whisper, all traces of his previous behaviour gone. "I've heard there are ghosts in that great big house of yours."

She scoffed, surprised at the instinct to playfully shove him. When had she ever done such a thing, even as a child? They had reached the end of the rock wall that closed in the lichyard, and she looked out over the stones, each in a different stage of time's decay.

Sansa had never spared much thought on ghost stories. As a young child, her eldest brother had attempted to scare her by telling of ghouls and lurking shadows, but she knew there was no plausibility to his tales. She was not afraid of the thought of ghosts, what was there to be afraid of if they aren't real?

She startled out of her thoughts, her silence ever so rude, so she rushed to reply. "Don't attempt to scare me, sir," she said, trying at gaiety, "Surely you've had your fill-" 

Realising he was no longer beside her, she turned, only to see an otherwise empty lane, save for Lady trotting up to her and sitting gracefully at her feet, tongue lolling. 

She looked back towards the town, but he was no where in sight. "Where's he gone, Lady?" She muttered in confusion, bringing a hand to her companion's head and burying her fingers in the soft fur for comfort.

Her question remained unanswered as the wind picked up, and the weak light was suffocated by darkened clouds. 

**Author's Note:**

> The song is Black is The Color of My True Love's Hair. I'm not sure who it's by though, I just happened across it :)


End file.
